


Taste

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Felching, M/M, Oral Fixation, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2616533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond and Q watch a film together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taste

**Author's Note:**

> Unredeemable filth, basically. This is my way of saying thank you to everyone who was so very, very kind to me last week. I do honestly love you all (and I show it with porn).

His breath catches.  He rocks back, lashes dipping at the press of the long line of Bond’s cock against his arse.  The hand in his lap stills, stops.

“Please.”  It’s polite.  Q can be polite, will show how polite he can be.  Bond chuckles low in his ear.

“Keep your eyes open, darling.  Tell me what you see.”

And what does he—?  On the screen, the boy whimpers as his partner kisses at his lower back, trails lingering affection down his spine and into the dusky valley of his arse.  The camera is lewd, nosy, and his partner holds him open so that Q can see the moment he licks directly over the squirming boy’s arsehole, the moment the boy shudders and Q groans, clenches hard around the fingers buried in his body and shifts in Bond’s grip.  

“Oh,” Bond whispers reverently against his ear, barely more than a puff of breath that stirs the curls that tickle Q’s throat.  “Oh, this is your favorite part, isn’t it?  You little tart.  You wonderful, filthy little—”  His fingers twist against Q’s muscles and Q whines.  “Dirty,” Bond continues, voice sweet.  “You’re so dirty, and you’re all mine.”

On the screen, the boy is writhing, spread wide for the camera and his lover, who grunts as he presses his lips in secret kisses, tastes the twitching muscles and reaches up to dig his finger in a corkscrew motion Bond replicates, leaving Q and the boy to whine at the same time, eager.  The boy reaches back, holds himself open, and his lover eats devoutly, nipping pink toothmarks into arse and thigh and the bend where body and leg meet in a little wrinkle, anywhere soft and bitable and secret; Bond digs his fingertips into the flesh above Q’s leg and Q sighs, eyes rapt on the screen.  

And he’s the dirty one, getting off to the sight when it’s Bond who likes to hold him here, to watch as he—Q sighs again, squirming in Bond’s grip.  “Please,” he murmurs, because it worked last time, but Bond’s laugh is dark and smooth as chocolate.

“Tell me.”

There’s no avoiding it.  Q lets his eyes slit open against the pleasure that flushes him pink with eager shyness, touches his tongue to dry lips and watches.  “He’s,” he starts, then wets his lips again, shivering as Bond strokes his fingers in careful circles around his rim again, taunting.  Encouraging.  “He’s.”

“What’s he doing?” Bond coaxes.  His breath is hot on Q’s ear, breath damp.  “Come on, darling, tell me what he’s doing.”

“He’s licking,” Q says, and Bond’s fingers dip inside in reward.  

“Tasting?”

“Devouring,” he confirms.  “His arse.”

“It’s your favorite part, isn’t it?  You like the part where he licks him, don’t you?  Sweet little filthy—”

“Yes,” Q agrees.  His body rocks as Bond rewards him, fingers sinking deep and stroking.  “Yes, yes.  I do.”  The boy’s lover presses one last kiss to the tender, secret skin and draws away; the image freezes, reverses, and the boy’s legs quiver again as his lover presses that first sweet kiss again.  

“Should we watch it again?” Bond asks, even as Q stares at the screen.  They’ve watched this one before; they’ll watch it again.  For now, he knows Bond is watching him with eyes as hungry as his own.  Q doesn’t answer, and Bond’s smile is slow against his skin.  “Do you want me to—?” he asks, fingers slowing as if to pull out, and Q shudders, shakes his head quickly and vehemently.

“No, keep—please.”  Keep touching me.  Keep fingering—

“Are you sure?”  It’s not meant to be sweet, not with Bond’s mouth turning sly, his hands clever with fingers pulling at Q’s rim with slick little tugs.  “Oh, you’d taste so good.  You’d taste,” Bond hums, drifting off until the only sounds in the room are the sound of his fingers in Q’s body, thick and squelchy, the tinny panting from the screen and the sounds of slick flesh on flesh, the shake of breath in Q’s chest as Bond touches him.  He imagines it, thinks about Bond’s mouth on his arse and the sucking kisses he’d leave along Q’s inner thighs, and Bond crooks his fingers inside until Q whines and his cock thumps against his belly.  “I could touch you like that.  I could lick you; I could—”

“Please,” Q whimpers, and Bond’s grin goes wolflike.  His fingers crook again, rub firm, and Q’s knees spread.  He’s shaking hard and breathing, and on the screen the boy is trembling under his lover’s hands.  Q comes with a little sound, a wounded cry as he spills on his belly and Bond’s hand on his abdomen, drips onto Bond’s moving fingers and feels it pushed into his body, feels Bond rubbing sticky wet into his skin and shivers, mouth wet.

Bond’s cock is fat, still pulling at him despite the thorough stretch of his fingers, and Q lets him roll him to the side, lets him sink in with a happy groan and fuck into his body.  “God,” Bond tells him, and Q squirms in his arms, sinks lazily into his clutch and lets him fuck with straining thighs and snuffling kisses pressed behind his ear.  “God.”

“Are you going to come?” Q asks, voice soft, curious.  On the screen, the boy has opened up to his lover, lifted his leg and curled it around his lover’s hip.  There is a loving shot of pubic hair tangled, light and dark.  “Fuck me until you come?”  It’s porn star dialogue, and he knows Bond loves it.

Bond’s growl is quiet, menacing, and Q grins to himself, rolls under him until he’s pressed flat under Bond’s weight, knees under his armpits and Bond pressing him into the bed.  His cock is nestled into the mounded duvet and on the screen the boy and his lover are fucking, and there are bruises forming under Bond’s fingertips as he holds him tight.   Bond forces him still with his body, pumps his cock into him, and when he comes it’s with a groan like a grand machine coming to rest, tapering into a smoky sigh that leaves Q trembling beneath him.  He pulls his cock back, eases Q’s thighs open, and thumbs the dribs of come back into his hole, rubbing over the reddened flesh as Q’s toes curl.

“Are you satisfied, pretty boy?” Bond asks, and.  Q’s grin goes softer, sweeter, more pliable.  He arches, offers.  Bond chuckles.  “No?  Pretty little whore.”  

His breath is hot against Q’s skin, chilling quickly in the places where lube and semen have slicked around his hole and down his thighs in messy smears.  His lips are tender, high on the inside of Q’s left thigh, and his tongue is perfect, perfect.  He kisses, then licks.  Q sighs.

Bond opens him with careful hands, presses his hips low and shimmies a pillow between his legs for Q to rut against the cool cotton pillowcase in slow, shameless drags.  He pushes one fist beneath the fluff and down, creates a knot of firmness for Q to hump, and Q is obedient, curls his arms up to rest his head and rocks his hips against Bond’s hand as he’s eaten from behind, as Bond laps the come from his skin and worries the abused edges of him with teeth and tongue and hungry, hungry mouth.  Bond’s other hand comes up and he spreads Q with his fingers, holds him open to drip into his mouth, holds him open so he can slick his tongue inside—so it can go right inside and Q can make soft, sobbing sounds into his arm.  He ruts and Bond suckles at him, cleaning and dirtying at the same time.  He shakes.

“Such a good boy,” Bond says, drawing back for a breath.  His words hit the back of Q’s bollocks; he groans quietly.  “Such a good, good, pretty boy.  Are you my good, pretty boy?” he asks, rubbing his thumb against Q’s arsehole again.  A fat drop of wet seeps out; Q hears him suck it clean with a slurping pop.

“Yes,” he says.  It’s shy, polite.

“Yes?” Bond hums.

“Yes,” Q agrees.  Bond nibbles at a bruise that’s already forming in the crease between his arse and his thigh, and Q’s knees go loose as jelly.

“Yes,” Bond confirms, and then he puts his hot mouth over Q’s hole again.  Q’s hips search for the firm knot of Bond’s fist through the pillow and when they find it he grinds, slow and hurting, into it.  “Yes,” Bond breathes again, pressing up.  

Q comes again into the pillow with a little sigh, legs spread and aching like a cramp.  Bond licks him through it anyway, licks him as he pulses under his mouth, licks him until he’s still and shivering with overstimulation, quiet and starry-eyed and meek as he’s rolled until he’s facing the ceiling, until he’s lying next to the come-smeared pillow and Bond can lick into his mouth.  He tastes himself and smiles.


End file.
